And he wore a very smart
and woolly white sweater, of the imported kind--with a
monogram done in black.
The traffic policeman put up his hand. The 'bus rumbled on
down the street. Names that had always been remotely
mythical to her now met her eye and became realities.
Maillard's. And that great red stone castle was the
Waldorf. Almost historic, and it looked newer than the
smoke-grimed Blackstone. And straight ahead--why, that must
be the Flatiron building! It loomed up like the giant prow
of an unimaginable ship. Brentano's. The Holland House.
Madison Square. Why there never was anything so terrifying,
and beautiful, and palpitating, and exquisite as this Fifth
avenue in the late winter afternoon, with the sky ahead a
rosy mist, and the golden lights just beginning to spangle
the gray. At Madison Square she decided to walk. She
negotiated the 'bus steps with surprising skill for a
novice, and scurried along the perilous crossing to the
opposite side. She entered Madison Square. But why hadn't
O. Henry emphasized its beauty, instead of its squalor? It
lay, a purple pool of shadow, surrounded by the great,
gleaming, many-windowed office buildings, like an amethyst
sunk in a circle of diamonds.
Pages:
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353